Om Manipadme hum.
The hollowness that I sit, in chair pose, in like an old ascetic, young in age but old in
the mind is like the curtain of the room. The bidding spring breeze waltzing with it
composing the game of light & dark; putting up on the easel of this moment the canvas
brushed with the hue of the chiaroscuro conceiving from the ticks of the wall clock.
The memories of a past life that I’ve, a beautiful girl, and a lot of dreams,
surprisingly yes, the same old story of the many other guys;
those memories, now, don’t haunt me ’cause I turned to hunter whenever they
tried to break me down, and the board overturned; they’re haunted & I’m the hunter.
those memories then ask for forgiveness because nothing can stands when you, I or
anyone asked the memory specific one to recall or replay; soul trapped inside a dead
body once freed doesn’t want to get captured again. They’re like the black drongo, born
for the sky, not for the cage. Those memories now lie as a crumble of the biscuits I had a
few minutes ago. The hollowness that I sit in like an aged young hermit is filled with the
aspirations of anyone have. The manuscript of my unborn work lying inside me; kicking
sometimes; to be out. Out in this world; to feel the dust; to feel the air. I’m nourishing it
with my thoughts & wishes.
Kolkata outside is brimming with Wednesday lazy-symphony. The cloud is
Curtaining the sun then and now. I, the hermit, shall lie down to feel her heartbeat. And
Let my oeuvre blanket me so that I can nourish my unborn works with the warmth of
Om Manipadme hum.
National Poem Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) 2018: Day#4: Write a poem that is about something abstract – perhaps an ideal like “beauty” or “justice,” but which discusses or describes that abstraction in the form of relentlessly concrete nouns.
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